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VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



VOICES FROM THE 
VALLEY 



BY 

WARREN WOOD 

Author of 
"The Tragedy of the Deserted Isle" 
"When Virginia Was Rent in Twain" 




" Whoever would understand the poet 
must go into the poet's country." 



THE CORNHILL COMPANY 
BOSTON 






Copyright 1918 

by 
Warren Wood 



All rights reserved 



0CT~9IS}B 



^W45 \ 



"My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit 
My midnight lamp, and what is writ, is writ — 
Would it were more worthier /" 

Childe Harold — clxxxv 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

Voices from the Valley 1 

La Belle Riviere 2 

Indian Summer • 4 

A Mansion, Old and Gray 5 

Harry's Picture 7 

Home Enough for Me 9 

Afterwhile 11 

Beneath the Snow 12 

Patience 13 

Lullaby 14 

The Naming of Ravenswood 15 

Under the Pines 17 

My Own West Virginia 18 

Crossing the Ford 20 

Reverie 21 

Showers of Gold 22 

Would It Matter 23 

Resurgence 24 

Calvary 25 

The Old Home Silent 27 

The Wind's Carnival 28 

Good-bye, Sweetheart 30 

A Rose Idyl 32 

S-ave 0-ur S-hip 33 

To a Garden Lily 36 

The Old Beech Tree 37 

For You 39 

Give and It Shall Be Given 40 

March 41 

Which 42 

Adventure 43 

In the Wake of the Flag 44 

Blennerhassett Isle 45 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

I hear the voices of the past 

Amid the trees, 

Stirred by the breeze 

From far-off seas, 

Whispering of hands that nurtured. 

Souls that strived, 

And loves that last. 

I hear the voices of to-day, 

From palace car. 

And from afar 

There comes the jar 

Of dull, discordant sounds, the moil 

Of mart and mill. 

Life's strife alway. 

I hear the voices of afterwhile. 

As in a dream. 

And things that seem 

To catch a gleam 

From distant shores, declare there'll be 

No carking care 

Where angels smile. 



2 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



LA BELLE RIVIERE 

"Beautiful river," with thy dark-green waters, 

Flowing silently on to the sea; 
Never complaining of the life-laden burdens, 

Thou art ever bearing onward with thee. 
Unbroken wildwood far away was thy birthplace, 

'Mid the crags, where men toil in the mine; 
Mountain-mist dewdrops thy infancy nourished; 

The twin-rivers' greeting was thine. 

Primeval forest to thy borders extended; 

Wild-flowers shed their fragrance like incense 
below; 
Milk-white blossoms fell like snow on thy bosom, 
Borne down with thy waters that hitherward flow. 
Waterfowl bathed in thy current pelucid; 

Fleet-footed deer slaked their thirst on thy 
shore; 
Red-men-of-the-forest launched their frail water- 
craft 
On the La Bell Riviere of yore. 

Gaul and Briton for thy fair woodlands con- 
tended; 
Here they were met in a wilderness war. 
But the Fleur-de-lis, and St. George and the 
Dragon, 
Were vanquished in turn and driven afar. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 3 

Then pioneer heroes, with ax and with rifle, 
Seeking for homes near thy sylvan-fringed 
stream, 

Laid the foundation of populous cities. 

That rose in the Valley like Aladdin's dream. 

Unheeding the changes that human endeavor. 

Abetted by Time's relentless hand; 
Ice-bound and frowning in dreary winter; 

With thy smiles in springtime gladdening the 
land. 
" Beautiful river! " with thy dark-green waters, 

Flowing silently on to the sea; 
May thy constant progress through sunshine and 
shadow, 

Teach a life-long lesson to me. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



INDIAN SUMMER 

The misty haze of autumn days 

Rests on woodland and wold; 

There's a tang in the air, 

Of these mornings so rare, 

When the trees are all crimson and gold. 

The mellow haze of autumn days 

Fills the valley and vale. 

And the cornshocks stand 

Like a warrior band, 

With tasseled helmets and coats of mail. 

The purple haze of autumn days 

Falls on river and rill. 

And their ripples shine 

Like ruby wine. 

When the sun sets over the hill. 

The golden haze of autumn days 
Brightens life's labor and love. 
When on woodland and river, 
The Bountiful Giver, 
Sheds the glory of heaven above. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



A MANSION, OLD AND GRAY 

Many, many miles away. 

Stands a mansion, old and gray; 

Shaded by the maple trees. 

Fanned by every passing breeze. 

Fairer sight one never sees. 

Than that mansion, old and gray; 

Many, many miles away. 

Many, many miles away. 

Stands that mansion, old and gray; 
Reared by hands clasped 'neath the mold. 
Loved by hearts grown still and cold. 
Gilded by the sunset's gold. 

Stands that mansion, old and gray; 
Many, many miles away. 

Many, many miles away, 

'Round that mansion, old and gray; 
Children gather in a throng. 
With merry shout and joyful song. 
There they frolic all day long, 

'Round that mansion, old and gray; 
Many, many miles away. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

Many, many miles away, 

In that mansion, old and gray; 

Loved ones often watch and wait. 

For my step within the gate. 

When I tarry long or late, 

From that mansion, old and gray; 

Many, many miles away. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



HARRY'S PICTURE 

That's Harry's picture, 
O'er the maiitel-tree; 
And his love for me. 
Can ne'er be told 
In words or gold, 

Dear Harry. 

That's Harry's picture. 
With his golden hair. 
And his face so fair; 
With his eyes so blue. 
And his heart so true. 

That's Harry. 

That's Harry's picture. 
In the gilded frame; 
And the night he came. 
No word was spoken. 
For my heart was broken, 
For Harry. 

That's Harry's picture. 
Where the colors twine. 
And the sabers shine — 
His sword was his pride; 
For the old flag he died. 
Brave Harry. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

That's Harry's picture, 
With its wreath of flowers, 
But the bitter hours, 
And the traihng vine, 
Alas, are mine, 

O Harry ! 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



HOME ENOUGH FOR ME 

Whar's my home? Wall, down in West Virginie, 
I s'pose, 
Seein' I've got a farm down thar.' 
Some fellers at home wherever they've got their 

clothes; 
Others say, " Whar' their hats is off," but so far's 
that goes; 
That is, so far's I can see; 
Any ole place, whar' little wife an' babies are 
Is home enough fer me. 

Nice ole homestead down thar', with picters on 
the wall. 
An' Brussels in the parler; 
New peaner, too, an' everything from hall 
To garret's purty comfortable, but that cuts no 
figger with me at all. 
When it comes to heart an' feelin's ez I can see; 
Any ole place, whar' little wife and babies are 
Is home enough fer me. 

Some folks like the country, an' others dote on 

town, 
But I'm not so particular. 
Some love springtime an' roses, or the fields 

a-turnin' brown; 



10 VOICES FROM THE VAXLEY 

But give me the winter's frost and sparkle, or 
the snow a-comin' down, 
With love aroun' the hearth an' a fire that I 
can see; 
Any ole place, whar' little wife an' babies are 
Is home enough fer me. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 11 



AFTERWHILE 

Afterwhile, life's burdens will be lighter; 
Our fancied wrongs, sometime seem slighter; 
Hope's dimming star from afar grow brighter, 
Afterwhile. 

Afterwhile, our quest shall solve the secrets hid- 
den; 
Far-strayed feet find ways our souls have stridden; 
The joy of peace crown brows unbidden, 
Afterwhile. 

Afterwhile, we'll glimpse the things now holden; 
Loved ones long lost shall be enfolden 
In arms and hearts now empty, in the golden 
Afterwhile. 



n VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



BENEATH THE SNOW 

My way lies buried beneath the snow, 
And I wander afield under leaden skies, 

Trying to trace its outlines dim. 

Where the Valley bends and the hilltops rise. 

My hope lies buried beneath the snow. 
Where the flowers faded ere they fell; 

And the grasses withered before their time, 
With the cherished dream I dare not tell. 

My heart lies buried beneath the snow. 
In a lowly mound, where the Valley bends 

And I wander on toward the hills, forlorn; 
Nor way, nor hope, nor life can make amends. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 13 



PATIENCE 

Patience, complaining one; 

For thee the sun shall rise, 
With healing for all thy hurt; 

Thy goal shall gain the prize. 

Patience, oh sorrying one; 

At noontide shall break away 
The clouds that hide thy path 

And vision of a fairer day. 

Patience, oh weary one; 

With the sunset cometh rest; 
After thy day's work is done, 

Thou shalt slumber with the blest. 



14 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



MAMMA'S LULLABY 

De sun'z gone down o' de mountains blue — 

Mammy's li'l baby; 
An' de squinch-owl sings, to-whit-to-whoo — 

Mammy's li'l lady; 
An' de night-win' sighs, an' de squinch-owl cries; 

What'U-I-do-wif-you — 

Mammy's li'l baby? 

Fly 'way, yo' can't hev my lady! 
Hie 'way o' de mountains, so shady ! 
Wen de moonbeams come down. 
She'll be safe in Shut-eye town; 
Wid mammy's arms aroun' 
'Er own li'l baby. 

De sun'z gone down o' de mountains blue — 

Mammy's li'l baby; 
An' de whip-poo'-will sings, what'll-poo'-will-do — 

Mammy's li'l lady; 
An' de night-win' sighs, an' de whip-poo'-will 
cries; 

What'll-poo'-will-do-wif-you — 

Mammy's li'l baby! 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 15 



THE NAMING OF RAVENSWOOD 

There's city and town 

In valley, on down, 

Reared afield where the forest once stood, 

But the "Beautiful river," 

With its shine and shiver. 

Runs by none so fair as Ravenswood. 

0*er the mountain crest. 

The pioneers press'd 

Toward this valley famed for fruitage and food; 

George Washington's heirs. 

The Clan Fitzhugh bears 

The honor of founding Ravenswood. 

Then the land was young, 

And the wild flowers sprung. 

And the restless raven reared her brood 

Near the forest view. 

Where the hamlet grew, 

And they called it Ravenswood. 

Some say the name 

Of the village came 

From a far-away land of highland and hood; 

That over the sea. 

From Walter Scott, we 

Borrowed the name of Ravenswood. 



16 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



From castle or cot, 

It now matters not; 

The titles we hold are equally good; 

For there's no better right, 

Or more beautiful sight 

Than found in the name of Ravenswood. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 17 



UNDER THE PINES 

'Twas the Wilderness fight, / 

And the dawn of day 
Fell through the pines, on Blue and Gray 

In ranks, under the murmuring pines. 

The moaning pines. 

'Twas the Wilderness fight. 

And the glint of steel 
And shock of battle made men reel. 

And fall, under the murmuring pines. 

The moaning pines. 

'Twas the Wilderness fight, 
And the moon looked through 

The green, on Gray and Blue, 

Asleep, under the murmuring pines. 
The moaning pines. 



18 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



MY OWN WEST VIRGINIA 

West Virginia's hills are green; 

Kissed by sunshine, and the sheen 
Of sparkling waters run between, 

My own West Virginia. 

How I love your castled walls. 
Where the tumbling torrent falls; 

Cliff and crag, my heart enthralls. 
My own West Virginia. 

Setting sun aslant the hills, 

On golden grain and rippling rills; 

Garnered peace and plenty fills. 
My own West Virginia. 

Wealth untold in mine and mold, 
Flocks and herds within thy fold; 

Hill and valley teem with gold. 
My own West Virginia. 

Summer's sun and winter's snow. 
Mountain-top and vale below, 

Alike with life and health aglow, 
My own West Virginia. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 19 

Here manhood stalks, and maidens charm; 

Eyes are bright and hearts are warm, 
In the town and on the farm, 

My own West Virginia. 

Free from serf and toil-oppressed, 

Land beyond all other blest; 
In thy bosom let me rest. 

My own West Virginia. 



20 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



CROSSING THE FORD 

What's that? No — not dead ! 

Killed while crossing the ford ! 
You heard the letter read — 

And have brought me his broken sword ! 

Father — help me pray ! 

May Thy will on earth be done — 
Through the thickest of the fray — 

Charge them as they run ! 

Goon! I'll keep still, 

Though heart is cold and brain's aflame - 
Saw him reel and fall — 

And heard him call my name! 

And then — That's all? 

Sent — Give me that golden curl — 
Hold me, lest I fall — 

My poor head is all a-whirl. 

Yes — leave me awhile; 

For my heart is turned to stone — 
How I long for his loving smile; 

Must I tread the wine-press alone? 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 21 

But stay ! I'm weary — 

Let my aching head be lowered; 
Earth seems so dreary, 

As I am crossing the ford. 



REVERIE 

Violet hills and golden sky, 
Mirrored in the river wandering nigh; 
Along the shore winds sweep and sigh; 
Amid the beeches rain-crows cry. 
Where once we played and said good-bye. 



22 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



SHOWERS OF GOLD 

Showers of gold — Showers of gold ! 
Easy to grasp and light to hold; 
Not from the wealth of Ophir's veins, 
Nor the hidden mines beyond the plains, 
But tumbling down from the maple trees, 
And borne away by every breeze. 
Are the showers of gold. 
That are easy to grasp, and light to hold. 

Showers of gold — Showers of gold ! 

Easy to grasp and light to hold; 

Not from the sheen of sunset skies, 

Nor the fabled urns, where rainbows rise, 

But drifted in piles 'neath the maple trees, 

Treasures most fair for him who sees, 

Are the showers of gold, 

That are easy to grasp, and light to hold. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 23 



WOULD IT MATTER 

If we were to meet 'mid the strife of the street, 
And then drift away in the wake of the sea, 
With the ebb and the flow as the tides come and 

go, 
Would it matter to you or to me? 
If we were to meet some day. 
And then drift far away, 
Would it matter to you or to me? 

If we were to know as the days come and go, 

And the years bear us on as they flee. 

We would meet some time, that your hand would 

clasp mine. 
Would it matter to you or to me? 

If we were to meet some day, 

And then drift far away. 

Would it matter to you or to me? 



24 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



RESURGENCE 

Weary of the world wars; 
Soul-sick of carnage and strife; 
Oppressed with the death-toll of Mars, 
The sacrificial waste of life, 
I seek for relief and rest 
Far from the haunts of men, 
Where in springtime the robins nest, 
That content may come again. 

Stretched in the beechen shade, 

Where the river wanders by. 

With rippling tints that glint and fade, 

'Neath the blue of an autumn sky; 

I hearken to the call of quail, 

Watch the blackbirds' flight o'er the corn. 

Faith gleams like some far-off sail — 

'Mid healing winds is peace re-born. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 25 



CALVARY 

It was scarce one week ago to-day 

He rode with high resolve, face strange set. 

Palms and vestments tapestried the way 

O'ertopping fair Mount Olivet. 

" Behold the King! " they cry, " Hosanna! " 

The human tides from far-sundered strands 

Surged round him in an eddying stream 

Of upturned faces and lifted hands. 

*' All hail to Israel's hope — the world's dream! " 

Such plaudits were paid by pilgrim bands. 

Dew lay on the stained olive leaves like tears, 
And trampled flowers their sweet incense shed 
Unheeded by the crass crowd whose cheers 
Re-echoed from the host that led 
On to the city. No lurking fears. 

As they turned the hill the sunlight shone 
Down on the towers of marble and gold; 
It touched His heart for He loved His own. 
And would have sheltered them in His fold, 
If they had known — if they had but known. 



26 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

They were amazed who beheld His grief, 
But were so dulled by their passion for power: 
Their craving for crowns, and for the chief 
Places; they discerned not His love nor His hour, 
Hastening to make its fleeting more brief. 

So He rode amidst the joyous train 

Down tented slopes to the mantled gate 

With waving palms; throngs chanting their strain. 

The city was stirred, but awoke too late; 

It had rejected the Messiah's reign. 

To-day He toils toward Golgotha's brow, 

While the fear-stricken few hurries by. 

Where the palm-branches — the shouting .f* How 

The rabble cry, " Crucify! Crucify! " 

This, the homage they render Him now. 

Dark broods Gethsemane where He prayed 
And Pilate's hall, with its scourge and thorn 

crown. 
While near Him trails the cross, but undismayed 
He faces the goal without a frown; 
Though His forehead bleeds and His back is flayed. 

Sharp are the spikes and sharper the spear. 
For the One who encounters priestly ban. 
Some stand afar; the mob presses near. 
May God forgive! Let him look who can. 
Light with darkness strives. "Love casts out fear." 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 27 



THE OLD HOME SILENT 

The old home is silent to-night — 

I sit in the shadow and ponder its plight; 

But one week agone 'twas radiant with light 

And love and laughter, and bright 

With good cheer, with flowers and song; 

Fair were the faces, hands warm, hearts strong 

With high hopes. Now the hours grow long, 

For the old home is silent to-night. 

The old home is silent to-night, 

And its soul seems to have taken its flight 

With the music and laughter, and a blight 

Has touched the flowers that faded with the 

light 
That vanished with the fair ones, and the strong. 
Far from its portals, the banqueting and song. 
They've left an empty void. Now the hours grow 

long, 
For the old home is silent to-night. 



28 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



THE WIND'S CARNIVAL 

The winds held high carnival 

O'er a whitened world. 

On the bleak highlands they raged, 

Through the forest they swirled. 

Drunk with the foam of Northern seas, 

They held wild revel 'mid swaying trees, 

Last night. 
The lifting winds, 
The sifting winds, 
The drifting winds. 

They rattled the swaying shutters. 

Tugged at the yielding doors; 

They crept through the listening keyholes. 

And over the shivering floors. 

They roared round the grim old walls. 

Unleashed furies from Woden's halls. 

Last night. 
The sweeping winds. 
The creeping winds, 
The weeping winds. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 29 

They raced the Valley's glistening track, 
And sometimes wandered afield, 
Where the best-loved come not back; 
Whose doors and casements did not yield. 
There the winds their vigils kept. 
Unheeded by the brave that slept, 

Last night. 
The prying winds, 
The crying winds. 
The dying winds. 



30 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 

Give me your little hand, 

Sweetheart. 
Could you but understand 
That I love you as I say, 
It would hurt me less 
When I am far away. 

Good-bye, sweetheart! 

Good-bye, sweetheart, 
Kiss me ere we part, 
And if we should ever 
Meet again, we'll never 
Part again, forever. 
Good-bye sweetheart! 

Let me look into your eyes. 

Sweetheart. 
They are blue as the sunny skies 
On a summer day. 
Will they drop a tear for me 
When I am far away? 

Good-bye, sweetheart! 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 31 

Let me press your lips to mine, 

Sweetheart. 
They are like ruby wine 
When the world is sad and gray. 
Will they drop a prayer for me 
When I am far away.? 

Good-bye, sweetheart! 



32 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



A ROSE IDYL 

There were roses trained by the cottage gate; 

Roses bourgeoning round the low lattice door; 

Roses clambering where the robins mate; 

Roses scattered o'er the old oaken floor; 

Roses blooming early, and roses late; 

Roses gardened on a far-away shore; 

Roses growing at a riotous rate; 

Roses clustering, and roses creeping o'er; 

Roses foreign-named — d'Arc and Sarasate; 

Roses for artist's skill and poet's lore; 

Roses fast fading, and roses that wait; 

Roses of fairy fragrance — a full score; 

But the sweetest rose of all — Sad fate — 

Was my own wild rose that will bloom no more. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 33 



S-AVE 0-UR S-HIP 

On the weltering sea the twilight gray 
Had folded its wings and slipped away 
Into the far bourne of yesterday. 
Still the ocean Hner ploughed the main, 
Farther into the forbidden lane; 
The dark waters sang a sad refrain, 
As onward she was gliding, gliding. 

'Twas the Irish sea, and one lap more 

The fearsome voyage would be o'er; 

Hearts grew lighter as they neared the shore. 

Some sought their berths to dream or to rest; 

Some passed time with story, game or jest; 

A few trod the deck with those they loved best. 

As onward she was speeding, speeding. 

On the bridge the captain his vigil kept. 
As the heavy hours toward midnight crept. 
Peering through the gloom while others slept, 
For well he knew this dark hunting-ground. 
Where many a ship her grave had found. 
The fated prey of some sub-sea-hound. 
As onward she was bounding, bounding. 



34 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

Eleven-thirty, the bridge-clock bell 

Was sounding the signal, " All is well." 

Alas ! It was the Laconia's knell — 

A crash with the last stroke of the clock 

Made the mighty leviathan rock; 

Her vitals were rent with the torpedo's shock, 

As onward she was plunging, plunging. 

Brave hearts were seized with a nameless dread. 
But no cries were heard, no panic spread; 
Only a drowsy plaint from some child led 
With the hurrying crowd where the lifeboats 

swung, 
Or a prayer when launching, but closer they 

clung. 
For one its freight into the sea had flung. 
As blindly she was reeling, reeling. 

Two mere youths down in the wireless room 
Stuck to their post in the deadly gloom, 
As souls went scurrying to their doom; 
Fighting for time with a courage rare. 
They ticked their message into the air 
While the swells rolled in the rockets' glare, 
As lower she was listing, listing. 

Calmly they looked out on the tragic fray. 

As with set jaws they ticked away, 

S. O. S. in monotonous lay. 

Was there none to heed their doleful cry? 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 35 



None but the enemy standing by; 

Another torpedo he let fly, 

As helpless she was stag'ring, stag'ring. 

The big ship shook from stem to stern; 

'Twas a deed to make their stanch hearts burn — 

And would there never come their turn? 

Still they heard the tread of shuffling feet. 

Saw fear-haunted shadows in retreat. 

The dangerous dangling of the lifeboat fleet. 

As slowly she was sinking, sinking. 

The launching — thank heaven — was bravely o'er, 
A lady and the captain last to lower, 
Save the wireless lads, brave to the core. 
The waves were licking the decks with greed. 
When waving their hands ,they followed their 

lead. 
With a great leap toward where there was need, 
'Mid the wreckage she was leaving, leaving. 



36 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



TO A GARDEN LILY 

Queen of the dewy bower, 

By right of royal beauty 

And thine own loveHness; 

In presence of such comeHness 

Homage becomes a duty. 

Humbly I salute thy Grace, 

When to the sun thy morning-face 

Thy waxen petals doth unfold 

A coronet of gold 

From out their snow-white glory. 

Fragrant at morn as jasmine. 

Fairy-like beneath the star-shine, 

A charmed circle waits thy story. 

Enthroned within, their Queen-flower. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 37 



THE OLD BEECH TREE 

Oh, here's a song to the old beech tree, 
With his vaUant air, though denuded, he stands 
In unconscious grace, where the farming lands 
Slant down to the river. Here many hands, 
Drifting away like its shifting sands. 

Have waved adieu to the old beech tree. 

Oh, here's a hail to the old beech tree. 
With his spreading arms, like some Druid old, 
Upheld in prayer and unheeding the cold, 
Or the tempest-blast of Boreas bold; 
His gnarled thews safe-anchored in the mold, 

With the Titan grasp of the old beech tree. 

Oh, here's a lilt to the old beech tree, 
In springtime robed in a mantle of green, 
Atune with droning bees; his leafy screen 
A-tremble with songs where robins preen 
And thrushes nesting. 'Tis a fairy scene 

In the region of the old beech tree. 



38 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

Oh, here's a glee to the old beech tree, 
A brave old knight of a far-distant day, 
His silvered mail carved in archaic way 
With names forgotten. Where the children play 
Lover's troths were plighted and friends were 
gay. 

What memories cling to the old beech tree. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 39 



FOR YOU 

My spirit calls for you, 

Across the storm-swept sea, 

Where fiercer tides beat out their wrath, 

And shrapnel mows a crimson path; 

Amid the frightful aftermath, 

Or flushed with victory, 

My spirit calls for you. 

My heart goes out to you 

Beyond the littoral. 

Entrenched in lines that lead away. 

Where toppling ruins mark the fray. 

And death stalks there by night and day; 

Whatever may befall. 

My heart goes out to you. 



40 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



GIVE AND IT SHALL BE GIVEN 

Give of your substance, your spirit, your life's 

quest, 
Without thought of recompense; 
Be not surprised if no strange thing happen; 
Indulge no fear; make no pretense 
Of vain regret. With God, the rest. 

Give of your hope, your joy, your love's best; 
Withhold not — your blood if need be — 
Count not your life; such seed well sown 
If others after a harvest see. 
What of the reapers .f* With God, the rest. 

Give of your patience, your striving, your heart's 

best; 
All given, the goal beckons before. 
Look not behind. What exchange for one's soul.f^ 
What more? How narrow the door! 
Unburdened, press on. With God, the rest. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 41 



MARCH 

The skies are drab; 

The fields are brown; 
A snow-white mantle clings to the trees, and gray 

Mist floats o'er the 

Red roofs of the town, 
While the wind moans on the hills and far away. 



42 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



WHICH 

Have the courage to sail 

In the teeth of the gale 
Or seek your flight in a clearer sky; 

Soar with the lark who sings 

Far on unwearied wings, 
Or drift like a wind-blown butterfly. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 43 



ADVENTURE 

A lowering sky, a listless world, 
Trees standing stark by the river side 
A song-bird high, a breeze unfurled, 
I launch my bark on the rising tide. 



44 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 



IN THE WAKE OF THE FLAG 

I hear the tramp of a million men above the clarion 
call "To arms!" 

From the silent hills and sunlit plain, from the 
city's din and green-walled farms, 

They're falling in line with swinging stride, awak- 
ened by war's wild alarms. 

There's the bugle's blare, the thrilling drums, and 
the far cry of a travailing world; 

Without shouting or tumult they come — well 
may the foe blanch when they're hurled 

In Armageddon, where Titans strive, their ban- 
ners unstained and unfurled, 

In the wake of the flag they're marching on. 

I see them marshalling in serried lines, torn from 
the arms of those most dear; 

With a smile on their lips they turn away, un- 
ashamed of the pent-up tear. 

When shall they meet their loved again? From 
the tense throng comes a parting cheer; 

The rising tide in waves unbroken, a tawny flood 
sweeps out to the sea. 

Heroic host in a day uprisen, a nation rallying for 
liberty — 

Round stars and stripes they're surging, singing, 
marching away to victory. 

In the wake of the flag they're marching on. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 45 



BLENNERHASSETT ISLE 

There's a low-lying island off the shore of Belpre, 

Stretching away like a reef of coral at sea, 

With its Cottonwood crescent and fringing willows 

that quiver 
And droop on the bosom of the " Beautiful 

river." 

In some wilderness seon, so the old chroniclers 

tell, 
Red warriors roamed this crossway; here they 

fought and some fell. 
Where slow-footed lovers wend unfrequented 

ways, 
Lay the trails of the hunted in those far-away 

days. 

On the low headland above, where the Kanawha 

runs down, 
The brooding forest hedged in the old pioneer 

town, 
With its crude clustered cabins, its hoof-beaten 

square. 
And a log courthouse that dispensed stern justice 

there. 



46 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

From their coigne of vantage on the Virginia shore. 

Its dwellers scanned the shining river and land- 
scape o'er, 

And the fair isle that below, a glimpse of Paradise 
lay 

Miraged in the widening waters as they drifted 
away. 

On a spring day redolent with fragrant growing 
things, 

Vibrant with echoing voices and the eerie whir of 
wings. 

They watched a lumbering shallop with its ven- 
turing band 

Floating down to its mooring on the glistening 
sand. 

'Twas an old-world voyager, dreaming a new- 
world dream; 

With besetting care cumbered he followed the 
gleam, 

But Fate with strange irony was web-weaving anew, 

Her entangling meshes around his Island view. 

From out blossoming thickets and mint-mar- 
gined aisles, 

Sweet frankincense is wafted, a feathered chorus 
beguiles 

Him, with a fusillade of song to the droning fugue 
of bees, 

Foraging 'mid wild violets and vigorous anemones. 



VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 47 

In this primeval Eden wood-thrushes were singing 

And crested cardinals mating when he set axes 
ringmg; 

Where wide-canopied beeches shaded the sweet- 
scented mold, 

He reared a white-winged palace like some baron 
of old. 

Filled with finely-carved furnishing wrought by 

skilled craftsmen hands, 
Broidered draperies and silken stuffs from looms 

in foreign lands. 
And with rare books and paintings, and carpet- 

ings beflowered 
In pattern Oriental, his fair bride was endowered. 

The wanderer havened safely, yet in an evil hour 

He yields a willing victim to ambition's lust of 
power, 

Nature's sponsoring fingers would fain his heart- 
ache ease. 

His many-pillared mansion woos him from South- 
ern seas. 

In its enchanted chambers clans severed oft were 

met, 
'Neath glowing candelabra, in the stately minuet. 
Dark eyes brightened with the glamour, deep 

signaled unto deep; 
Hearts and feet were set flying with music's 

swirl and sweep. 



48 VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 

Again the shimmering moonlight falls where the 
mansion stood. 

And whispering winds make music like harps- 
strings in the wood; 

The munnuring river lingers, crooning the story 
o'er, 

Of the deserted island and the days that come no 
more. 



SeAVE R -HOWLAND PBWS 

271 Franklin St. 
'BOS TO J/ 



